


Like lines on a road map

by Addie_D_123



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood, Brother Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mental Breakdown, Self Harm, Wincest - Freeform, death of a major character: Sam's hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1840843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Addie_D_123/pseuds/Addie_D_123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's relationship with Sammy's hair has always been complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like lines on a road map

**Author's Note:**

> I should note that there is a major character death in this story. If you consider Sam's hair a major character.

.

.

.

The right side of his hair was nothing but a hard matted crust. Sam had laid directly on his brother’s gaping chest wound and pushed down hard into the sticky mess. Dean’s heartbeat long gone, there was nothing but a hollow silence. His ear had filled with the blood congealed there, the wet creating a seal between their bodies. When Sam had covered his other ear with the flat of his palm he could hear his own blood pumping in his head and he could imagine in that moment. He could pretend just a little while longer.

But now staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, wild eyes stare back at him. Half his face covered in blood that tightened as it dried, cracked and flaking around the corner of his mouth. The trails of his tears had washed some of the red away as they disappeared into his hairline. He had laid there still as death for what seemed like hours. And when he finally attempted to raise his head Dean’s shirt had clung to him. Dried gore like glue, he had peeled away the stiff cloth with a cry of pain.

Maybe Dean didn’t want to see him go.

He dipped his head down into the sink but the angle was all wrong. He was too tall and the bathroom was so small. He leaned over and tilted into the stream of cold water coming from the tap, watching as the rust colored water swirled down the drain. He worked at the clumps with shaking fingers but the water wouldn’t run clean and the blood remained.

He thought it always would.

Opening the mirrored cabinet he found what he was looking for immediately. He fumbled at first, dropping the scissors into the sink where they clanged loudly in the quiet room. He picked them up again, trying to get numb fingers in place, using his left hand to grab at the gummed up clump at the other side of his head. He pulled it away from his scalp hard, welcoming the pain, and placed the blades around the strands. Taking a few slow breaths, he steadied himself.

_snip_

“C’mon, Sammy, just a trim, whadduya say?”

Dean had threatened him with those very same scissors a few months earlier but now it seemed like a lifetime ago. He had grinned over his shoulder in the mirror, blades carving through the air as he snipped them in Sam’s direction with a wicked grin. And Sam had scowled back at him, grumbling under his breath and his brother had laughed. A deep warm belly laugh that Sam would kill to hear again. He would kill anything, anyone, to hear his brother laugh again.

_snip_

Another chunk fell into the sink to join the first. And another and another.

_snip snip snip_

“If you don’t cut that hair, Samantha, I’m gonna start braiding it. I mean, how are you supposed to get my back when you can’t even see through your bangs?”

This was years ago when Dean had sat on a musty old motel bed and pulled Sam roughly onto the floor in front of him. He had threaded his fingers through it, pulling it back off his little brother’s forehead with one hand while his other arm pulled him into a headlock. Sam had struggled and whined until Dean had released him, but he had stayed in his place on the floor. And after a minute Dean had reached forward again, dragging his nails lightly across his brother’s scalp. Combing his fingers through to gently untangle the knots he had made there. Lazily petting him as they sat in comfortable silence watching shitty infomercials on a fuzzy TV.

Sam stopped to look over his progress. The right side of his head was abstractly shorn. In some spots his scalp was visible, in other spots tufts stuck out at odd angles. He felt laughter start to bubble deep in his chest. The corners of his mouth quirked up and the feeling rose into his throat, finally escaping in a fit of hysterical giggles. He wondered what Dean would think of this look. He closed his eyes and saw Dean’s expression in his head. His open-mouth grin like a silent guffaw, his eyes crinkled up at the sides. Maybe he’d be doubled over with a laugh and he’d smack Sam on the back roughly before leaving the room, the sound of his laughter trailing behind him, bouncing off the cement walls of the bunker.

Sam’s hands seemed to vibrate with manic energy and he struggled to calm himself before reaching over to begin on his left side.

_snip_

“Don’t worry, Sammy. It’ll grow back. I promise.”

It was ages ago, the one and only time John had cut Sam’s hair. He had been eight years old. The first day at a new school and some brat had stuck his gum in Sam’s hair, twisting it in while screaming at him, “Long hair is for girls!” And John had promised to only cut out the gum. Dad always lied. He chopped and chopped and when he was finished it was short all over. Sam had cried and covered his ears with his hands where his hair used to lay.

“Too short, De. Too short!”

Dean had vowed to him then, while glaring daggers at their father, that only he was allowed to bring scissors anywhere near Sam’s head. From that point on. Forever.

Even in his Stanford years, it had taken a lot of convincing before he had given in and finally let Jess even trim it. He had immediately regretted it. Panicked, he had stormed out of their apartment, running down darkened streets, thankful for the rain to hide his tears. He was a grown man goddamn it, not some little boy crying over how he missed his big brother. He hated to see the hurt and confusion in her eyes, but how could he explain to his girlfriend that his hair wasn’t hers. It wasn’t even his own, not completely. It was his brother’s job to cut it and anything else just felt wrong.

Like a betrayal.

Even now, scissors in hand, he felt the guilt threatening to swallow him whole. But he couldn’t wait for Dean this time. Dean was gone.

_Gone._

_snip snip snip_

Sam traded the scissors for a razor. Dean’s straight razor glinted in the light’s harsh fluorescence. Scraping the blade dry across his scalp he hacked at it until his own blood took the place of where Dean’s had been. The only way to get clean.

He dropped the razor into the sink and the clatter echoed off the cold tile walls. His blood was so much brighter; a clear vivid red where Dean’s had been a brownish shade of rust. And now he could let himself cry again, his reward for a job well done. He ran his hands through the water and over his head again and again, concentrating on the sting of every little abrasion. Without all of that hair to shield his face his gauntness was much more apparent. His head suddenly far too big for his neck and his skull too heavy to hold up on tired, aching shoulders.

He imagined Dean walking in on him in this moment. His jaw dropping open dumbly as he reached forward to grab Sam’s chin in his hand, turning him this way and that to survey the damage.

“Bang up job you did there, Sammy.”

And he would smile with his mouth but not with his eyes.

“Man, you butchered it. Why didn’t you wait for me, Sam? You know I’m the only one that can tame your crazy ass hair.”

And Sam frowned to himself because it was Dean’s job. What had he done? Dean had promised him that no one else would ever cut his hair but him. His brother. His dead brother.

_Dead._

A distant sound drew his eyes away from the mirror suddenly.

_thud_

Sam was so lost in his memories that he swore he could hear Dean’s voice, calling him from the other room. The room where his body now lay alone but not forgotten. A cold and stiff shell.

“Sam?”

Sam was surprised at the vividness of his own hallucinations. He heard his brother calling out to him, his voice louder and more panicked with every attempt. Sam guessed this was the beginning of the end of his sanity. He wouldn’t miss it. At least here in his own madness he could hear Dean’s voice again.

“Sammy? SAM!”

Dead or not, he knew to come whenever his brother called.

He turned to leave the bathroom but hesitated, catching one more glimpse of his bare head in the dirty mirror. Various cuts were bleeding freely again, making little red trails across his scalp like lines on a road map. One slow tickling drop slid down his forehead and he wiped it away roughly with the back of his hand.

One thing he was sure of, if Dean saw him like this right now he would freak. So he called out to comfort his brother. Just like Dean had done for him so many years before. His voice carried down the halls as he made his way back to the bedroom. Back to his Dean.

“Don’t worry, Dean. It’ll grow back. I promise.”

 


End file.
